More Random Thoughts - December 2013 Edition

Random Thoughts for December

Here's a major difference between men and women: Spitting. I don't know one woman, no matter how vulgar she may be, who would walk down the street and spit. Yet men think nothing of it. Forget baseball players with their seemingly endless supply of saliva or sunflower seeds or tobacco. Just the ordinary guy will be walking down the street and launch a lugie. So that is, in my mind, a very fundamental difference between the sexes. Thank you, Margaret Mead, for that anthropological observation.

Seen on a t-shirt: Why is abbreviation such a long word? Good question.

I hate it when my socks sink into my shoes and I have to keep retrieving them. This only happens with certain pairs, but when it does, it drives me crazy. The other thing that drives me crazy is missing socks. I picture a sock somehow gaining its freedom from the washer or dryer in a scene reminiscent of Tim Robbins’ escape from prison in “The Shawshank Redemption.”

Whenever my sister and I find ourselves with extra time on our hands, do we sit and watch a movie? Read a book? Call a friend? No, we throw in a "bonus load" of laundry. We're nuts, I know, but getting an extra load in – especially for her, since she has a job that keeps her out of the house all week – is a thrill. Even for me, the family retiree.

There's nothing like getting into a bed with clean sheets. Not that the ones that were on the bed last night could actually get dirty. After all, it's not like I work in a dusty place, have pets on the bed, eat in bed or any of the above, so how dirty could they get? But still, there's nothing like clean sheets on the bed. Come on, you know just what I mean.

Speaking of clean, raise your hand if you clean the house before the cleaning lady comes. OK, I see a lot of hands out there. I always straighten up, since I don't want her to have to deal with the newspapers and magazines and the general clutter. I want her to scrub and clean. I can do the organizing. Everyone does that, I think, unless they just don't have the time, right? Besides, do I want the cleaning lady to think I live like a slob (which, I assure you, I do not)?

There are so many cleaning products under the kitchen sink that there isn't even room for all of them. It would be nice if someone other than the cleaning lady used them. Oh, I guess that would be me...

Sometimes I think to myself, "If it were up to me, I'd stay in bed all day and read." Then I remember it IS up to me. But then I feel guilty about what I SHOULD be doing, so I don't stay in bed all day and read. But one day, I swear I will. I only hope it is by choice.

It is really strange to walk down the street, listening to iHeart Radio and get traffic and weather reports from Phoenix or whatever station I happen upon.

There are 15 clocks in this house and the only two that show the same time are on the DVRs (which I can't set or override). I throw up my hands sometimes and wait until we have to change the clocks, when I know they will all be at the same time, at least for the day. Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?

I have 2 red raffle tickets in my wallet for something I bought or signed up for. No one has called and no one will, but I am holding on to them anyway. Why?

My phone conversations with my sister are so mundane, so boring, that we get hysterical thinking about them. I only hope the government is listening in. Someone could easily fall asleep listening to us ruminate over the latest "star" to go home on "Dancing With the Stars," or planning an outing to drop off clothes for a clothing drive, or talking about the sale at ShopRite on the laundry detergent I use (my sister is on patrol to keep me informed of sales on Dynamo). Bring it on, NSA. We'll bore you to death.

Do you find yourself saying, “Before I forget,” more and more often? It’s not just me, right?

It seems every time I go to the eye doctor the sun is shining brightly. Then they put those drops in my eyes to dilate my pupils and I leave the office and am immediately blinded by the light. And then I drive home!

Is there a town that doesn't have a road named "River Road" or "Lakeview Drive?" And how many are actually near a river or have a view of a lake? And speaking of street names, it is interesting to notice how the town or the developers have decided on the names. I live on Joshua Drive, near Scott and Daniel, but not that far from Barbara, so the developer must have had a lot of kids with those names. When will we see Tameika Place? Khadijah Drive? Some communities use names that reflect the former heritage of a location, like Choctaw Ridge Road. I always feel sorry for the kids who are just learning their addresses who have to learn to spell Amagansett. My former address was Skillman Close. Not Road, not Drive, not Street. Close. This is apparently a nicer way of denoting a dead end. But how many times did I have to spell it out or explain it? It's not like I CHOSE the name.

Who sits around and makes up names for paint colors and shades of lipstick? Look, this can't be an easy job. How many ways can YOU describe beige or shades of red and pink?

Please, God, make people stop using 'single quotes' where clearly "double quotes" belong. This seemingly universal change in punctuation is making me twitch. I see it in the Star-Ledger nearly every day, and it appears in more places than I can list. I can see the headline in the obituary section – Woman Dies from 'Single Quote' overexposure.

Stink bugs are aptly named, because they stink.

I wonder if any of the seemingly miserable and generally surly government employees with whom we have to deal went home excited and happy the day they got the news they were hired. Or does the government look for miserable people to hire so they can deal with the public? I’m thinking specifically of the local Social Security office as well as the toll-free SS line, where the person I spoke with was not even as warm and helpful as an automated line.

Among the many things I don’t do well, near the top of the list, is peeling hard-boiled eggs. Don’t expect deviled eggs from me anytime in the future since when I peel an egg, I end up denting it, and you are likely to get a piece of shell. I know, I know, peel ‘em under running water, but then you’ll get a wet egg from me. Your choice.

When I go out for a walk in the cold weather, I layer it up. In fact, nobody this side of Heidi wears this many layers. You'd think I was walking in the Antarctic rather than on the streets of Hillsborough.

Though I pride myself on a pop culture IQ that is far above average, I must admit that I have not only never seen “Dr. Who,” but I don't even know what it is about. Furthermore, I don't care to. And I've never seen or read “The Hunger Games,” either, and probably never will.

As I was scrubbing a potato to within an inch of its life the other day, I started to wonder how many tons of dirt I have consumed over the years. I mean, nobody truly gets all of the dirt off a potato, so some of it just has to be eaten. As the old ad goes, I guess we as a species are "stronger than dirt."